


Good Boy Gone Bad

by lordelannette



Series: Stucky One-Shots [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Good Boy Bucky Barnes, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Underage Drinking, Uptight Bucky Barnes, bad boy steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is a good boy.Until Steve Rogers enters his life.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stucky One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895044
Comments: 20
Kudos: 281





	Good Boy Gone Bad

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written as a Harry Potter story called 'Breaking and Entering' by a dear friend of mine with the pen name of provocative_envy. She gave me permission to convert it to a STUCKY piece.

James Buchanan Barnes is a good, all-American boy. 

He goes to volunteer at the Humane Society every Fridays and Saturdays; he attends church on Sundays with his family and always donates his time to make at least a dozen of his signature plum cobblers for the church’s bake sale every first Sunday of the month; and he is not only the proud President of Shield High School’s Student Council, but also the student with the highest GPA and is set on becoming the valedictorian of his class. He’s friends with everyone and everyone’s comfortable enough with him to call him by his preferred nickname-- Bucky-- and when they greet him in school or out in town or at church, he always smiles and clasps their hands and bids them well.

He wears pressed to perfection khaki trousers and button up shirts that always have the collar properly in place; loafers that are never dirty and shine beautifully beneath the lights of his school’s hallways and classrooms. He keeps his skin clean and clear, and always has his shoulder length hair combed and styled to highlight his facial features while also making sure he never has split ends or uses too much of his favorite hair products. 

James Buchanan Barnes, but call him Bucky, is a good boy-- 

Until Steve Rogers enters his life. 

* * *

Bucky’s sitting in his customary, front-row desk, posture as straight as a yardstick, with his fancy ball-point pen beside his moleskine notebook, and he's listening to Brock Rumlow try to pressure him into going to the movies later that weekend when  _ bam _ \-- the classroom door flies open. 

The noise is so loud that the background din of hushed, early morning chatter dies down. 

An unfamiliar boy steps into the room.

Bucky, and everyone else in the class, stares. 

The boy is tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and thick arms, with a narrow waist that seems impossible given how large the boy is. His blond hair is short but just long enough to be combed properly to the side, and he has a face that is strong just like the rest of him. He's handsome, easily so, but the part about him that sucks the air right from Bucky's lungs are his eyes. They're the sharpest, brightest pair of blue eyes that Bucky has ever seen. The boy is striking, magnetizing, marble-cut and when he smiles, his teeth are pristine and white as paper. 

His clothing, on the other hand…

The boy has on a black leather jacket and dark blue jeans that have holes in the knees but are tight enough that Bucky can see the rectangular outline of a pack of what must be cigarettes bulging in his front pocket. There’s a pair of aviator sunglasses tucked into the collar of his black t-shirt, and the whole look is tied off by the scuffed black converse on his feet.

Bucky grimaces.

The boy isn’t even carrying any books. 

“I’m not late, am I?” the boy lazily drawls out like he doesn’t have a care in the world and he looks around the room with those eyes of his, and for a moment, Bucky swears that the boy’s gaze lingers on him, heavy as nothing he’s ever experienced before, but that-- that would be  _ absurd _ . Bucky is certain that he’s mistaken. 

“Well, actually--” Brock starts to say, puffing out his chest.

“Wasn’t asking you,” the new boy interrupts with an easy grin, clearly not bothered by his rudeness even though Brock splutters. 

Bucky reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. 

As the boy moves to make his way to the back of the room, he pauses right next to Bucky’s desk. Something spicy and strong and so  _ intoxicating  _ hits Bucky’s nose. Instinctively, Bucky glances up. 

He’s met with a devilish smirk, caught dead in those pretty blue eyes. The boy taps his long fingers against the edge of Bucky’s desk and Bucky’s stomach clenches, making him only vaguely uncomfortable. 

“I was actually asking you, pal,” the boy murmurs, leaning in close. 

Bucky’s lips part wordlessly. In the corner of his eye, he sees Brock look rapidly between the two of them. 

But then Bucky catches himself. His jaw snaps shut with an audible click and he raises his chin. 

“Class begins at 8:15,” he tells the blond with a pleasant, simpering smile. 

The blond smiles back and it’s then, that Bucky realizes just how much trouble he’s really in. 

* * *

Bucky’s successful at ignoring the new boy’s presence for most of the morning. 

He discovers-- inadvertently, because the blond’s sudden presence is all everyone talks about-- that his name is Steve Rogers; he’s an only child to a single mother; and he correctly answered a few questions in Government when no one else bothered to talk. 

In the two classes that they share, Steve continues to sit in the empty last row, deep in the farthest corner and keeps his feet propped up on an empty chair as he slouches casually in his desk. He doesn’t make an appearance in the cafeteria for lunch-- thankfully-- but when Bucky passes the cheerleaders, he hears Sharon and the others giggle, catching a hushed ‘Steve’ as he goes on his merry way. Bucky figures that one of them will have their shiny painted talons stuck in Steve Rogers by the end of the day, and Bucky wonders if it would be rude if he were to calculate the statistical probability of them hooking up under the bleachers by the football game at the end of the week. It  _ is  _ rude-- Bucky knows that-- but if Steve Rogers is even half as deviant and irresponsible as Clint Barton or Sam Wilson and the rest of their gang of Avengers--

Steve glides into Calculus ten minutes after the bell rings. Bucky’s surprised to see him there given that the class is advanced, but his surprise is quick to melt away when he notices the sunglasses perched on the end of Steve’s nose, and that there’s a faint whiff of smoke clinging to his body like a second skin. 

Bucky exhales impatiently, shaking his head and returning his attention back to the board-- back to a formula he’s already memorized but is desperate for the distraction. 

Someone drops into the desk right behind him. 

Bucky freezes. Surely Steve isn’t--

“Hey, pal,” Steve says, breath warm as it cascades over the back of Bucky’s neck. 

His skin prickles with awareness, a tingle shoots down his spine that comes with someone being so close. Bucky grips his pen tighter. He doesn’t respond. 

“Had to go take care of a few things during lunch,” Steve goes on. “Took longer than I thought it would. Did I miss anything?”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “It’s rude to talk during a lesson,” he grits out. He has half the mind to keep writing, keep his focus and attention off of Steve, but the words fly out before he can stop himself. “-- And I don’t care about where you were during lunch.” 

Maddenly, Steve grins. “Aw, don’t be like that,” he says, soft and rough, right in Bucky’s ear. “Just want to talk to you. Besides, it’s not everyday someone sees someone as pretty as you, pal.” 

Bucky’s teeth dig hard into his bottom lip. “You don’t even know me.” 

“Maybe I want to know you,” Steve replies, his voice thick with amusement and a  _ lot _ of arrogance. “Maybe I want you to know me.” 

Bucky almost drops his pen. He stares down at his notes, unblinking. “What’s there to know? I doubt we have much to talk about.” 

Steve’s desk wobbles as he shifts his weight forward, suddenly so close that his lips graze the shell of Bucky’s ear. “That’s not all true at all,” he counters. “We’re talking just fine right now, aren’t we?” 

Bucky scoffs. “Is that what this is? If you consider this talking, then yes, I suppose we’re doing just that.” 

Behind him, Steve releases a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, that’s what this is.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to say… something, anything, because he refuses to let Steve have the last word, but he’s cut off as Mr. Coulson makes a disappointed noise in his throat. 

“Mr. Rogers,” their teacher interjects abruptly, clearly irritated. “How nice of you to join us for your first day, and with such vocal enthusiasm, too. Perhaps you’d like to volunteer to solve the practice equation on the board?” 

There’s a collective groan of sympathy from the rest of the class. Bucky glances at the equation Mr. Coulson is motioning towards and he frowns. The equation is obviously hard, a complex arrangement of numbers and variables that is likely supposed to stump them. There’s no way Steve will--

“No problem,” Steve says, his chair screeching as he gets to his feet. There’s no missing the amusement lacing his voice. “This is a review problem, right?” 

Bucky watches Steve closely as he saunters to the front of the room. 

“Not quite,” Mr. Coulson replies coolly. There’s a look on his face like he’s clearly waiting for Steve to make a fool of himself. Bucky holds his breath and leans forward. “Go ahead. Try your best.” 

Steve’s lips twitch. He cocks his head to the side, humming thoughtfully, and he raises his arm to start writing. It's quick and effortless, is what it is to Steve. When he’s done, Steve peeks over his shoulder and looks right at Bucky as he drops the dry-erase marker onto the lip of the board. 

“The answer’s seventeen, pal” he says with a devastating grin before winking right at Bucky. 

Predictably, several girls in the room sigh wistfully-- and Bucky’s cheeks burn. It doesn’t help that Steve’s handwriting is somehow beautifully elegant. 

Bucky folds his arms over his chest. 

“Very impressive, Rogers,” Mr. Coulson says, looking surprised as any of them have ever seen him before. 

When Steve glides back to his desk, Bucky doesn’t follow his movements. Instead, he stares at the answer that Steve took the liberty of circling, scowling. “How did you know the answer?” he demands. 

Steve studies him for a long moment. Bucky fidgets beneath the weight of those eyes. 

“You have to let me keep a few of my secrets,” Steve says eventually. 

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “No,” he replies bluntly, “I really don’t.”

Steve’s blue eyes sparkle. “And that’s what I’m counting on.” 

* * *

Bucky’s sitting behind a foldable table, shuffling a stack of floral patterned paper plates as he inspects the overall aesthetic appeal of the golden-brown tops of his cobblers. He’s been serving slices non-stop for almost an hour now, but miraculously the crowd has finally started to disappear and he can actually breathe.

It doesn’t take him long to find out why. 

There’s a nearby group of senior women that start to whisper to one another, a scandalized sort of behavior that Bucky has long recognized ever since he came out his freshman year of high school. 

Bucky squints in the direction they’re all looking. 

Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson are strolling towards him, leather jackets covering their torsos and aviator shades in place. Sam is clearly complaining about something, but when Steve shoves into him, Sam looks like his patience is wearing thin and quite quickly, too. 

“-- the hell, Steve, you promised me dessert,” Sam grunts, and it’s then that Bucky realizes there’s a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger as Sam takes a long, deep drag and smoke billows through his lips. 

“Sam can you please just shut up?” Steve growls, combing his fingers through his hair and tugging at the collar of his jacket. “And there’s clearly dessert here, we’re at a fucking bake sale.” 

They’re only a few feet away from Bucky’s table now and the well-dressed woman beside him-- that happens to be part of Bucky’s mother’s shopping posse-- appraises both Steve and Sam with a curled upper lip and a barely concealed frown. Sam catches her looking and gives her an overly kind smile that borderlines on being aggressive. Sam's look falls just slightly short of equalling sticking both of his middle fingers in the air and shouting at her to fuck off. 

It's safe to say that Bucky is horrified. 

Steve reaches into his back pocket, taking out his wallet. "Here-- go buy something. And try not to cause problems. I have  _ things _ that need to be taken care of."

Sam snatches the wallet before taking another drag of his cigarette. "Yeah, yeah," he says and Bucky would be willing to bet that behind his aviators, Sam's rolling his eyes. "Go woo the homecoming king, Steve." 

Steve kicks at Sam's ankle but neither say another thing to each other as Sam slides away. Alone now, Steve then takes the last few steps to Bucky's table. 

"Hey there, pal," Steve says, smiling all pretty and making Bucky feel light-headed. "Guess who got you a present?"

Bucky wrinkles his nose, stubbornly fighting down the overwhelming thrill of anticipation that settles low and deep within him. "I don't want a present from you," he says, pursing his lips. "And besides… it could be a terrible present."

Steve leans forward. Bucky tries his hardest not to gawk at the muscles in Steve's arms that ripple and flex as he pressed down onto the table. 

"Flowers are never terrible. Are they?"

Bucky's heart lurches, and he quickly focuses on how serious a cardiac arrhythmia could be if he were to leave it untreated, especially at his age--

"Hey, Steve," Sam calls out, quickly making his way over with a flimsy paper plate and a heaping slice of chocolate pie. "I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get kicked out of here if your homecoming king doesn't vouch for me in a minute-- those old ladies with the lemon bars are fucking vicious man. When I asked them for a fork they acted like I was about to stab them with it."

Steve shoots him an exasperated glare. "I'm gonna stab you with it," he mutters, ducking his chin and clenching his jaw. 

Bucky looks at Sam, before glancing back to Steve, already regretting what he's about to do. "Here," he says easily, cutting a generous portion of cobbler and adding it to Sam's plate. "They won't make you leave if they think you're a paying customer. The church is always pretty eager for any money they can get."

Steve's easy, practiced smile flickers with surprise, turning more genuine. Bucky's heart flip-flops again and he firmly decides that he must be coming down with a fever-- it's the only reasonable explanation. 

"Eager to keep me around?" Steve teases. 

Bucky meets his eyes-- blue like the sky, like the ocean with shards of grey and green and white, lashes long and thick, pupils contracting and constricting and quivering before they bloom and blossom and  _ oh _ , oh no oh no oh no--

"You promised me flowers," Bucky says, hauntingly. "And I don't see any."

Steve smirks. "I left them in my car," he answers, no shame anywhere to be heard. "Thought that maybe I could take you on a ride somewhere after you finish up. Maybe dinner?"

"A ride on you, you mean," Sam mumbles before shoveling a forkful of cobbler into his mouth. 

Bucky inhaled sharply, feeling the blush taint his cheeks, and Steve jabs an elbow into Sam's ribs. Steve doesn't look away from him but Bucky can see the way the vein in his jaw twitches before he takes a deep breath. 

Incredibly, Steve's demeanor stays soft the entire time and his gaze scours Bucky's face closely. "So does that sound good? Will you let me take you out tonight?"

Bucky falters. He can’t say yes, he knows that, but he’s confused-- and downright  _ appalled--  _ by how very much he wants to. It has to be a fever. He is very, very ill and he’s delirious with it-- because then it would account for the shivering and the poor judgement and the ache in the pit of his abdomen, something that is so exhilarating and exhausting and--  _ wrong _ . Wrong, wrong, wrong. He just needs medical attention. That’s all. 

“I’m not…” Bucky trails off, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to see Mrs. Rumlow watching them with a sour expression on her face. Bucky bristles at the scrutiny, swallowing. “I can’t tonight, actually. I’m going to the movies with Brock.” 

Steve’s gaze hardens. 

“Aw, fuck,” Sam groans. 

* * *

Bucky is lying flat on his back in his bed and despite his comforter and pillows being fluffy and clean, and the softness of his t-shirt and briefs being exactly what he needs to lull him to sleep-- he just can’t. He’s been staring at his ceiling for an hour now and the clock on his nightstand stares judgingly at him as the minutes tick away. 

It’s eleven twenty-one and his entire family is dead asleep and Bucky, bless his soul, is wide awake. 

He curls his toes, licks at his lips. 

With every restless shift of his hips, a phantom brush of friction rubs against his front and while he wants to chase and follow and capture that sensation, he takes a deep breath and presses his thighs tightly together. 

He refuses to think of Steve Rogers. He does not imagine soft red lips and a boyish smile, does not hear a deep, slightly slurred voice shouting--

“Bucky! Hey-- hey, Bucky! You awake?” 

Bucky’s eyes go wide. Surely he’s not--

He bolts up as a tiny rock hits the glass with a clink. 

“Bucky, honey, I-I know you’re awa- awake. Christ--” 

Bucky swings his legs over the side of his bed, stomps barefoot to his window, and tugs it open with a near-silent pull. He pushes his head out the window and looks down. 

Steve Rogers is standing-- swaying, really-- in the middle of his parents neatly manicured lawn, with a mostly empty bottle of something clutched in his left hand and an unlit cigarette hanging sadly in the other. His infamous leather jacket is on the ground, a wilting bouquet of white daisies resting on top of it, and his t-shirt snug around his biceps. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky hisses. “My parents--” 

“There y’are, sweetheart,” he says, talking over him. The alcohol bottle plops onto the grass, and Steve dives for the flowers, before brandishing the bouquet with a clumsy wave of his hand. “I brought-- I told’ya I had flo--flowers for you. I bought ‘em. You should-- they’re for you. Here.” 

Bucky chews his lip, fighting a smile, and wraps his arms around his waist. “It’s late, Steve,” he responds. “You shouldn’t--” 

“What?” Steve practically shouts, peering up at him. “What’d you-- ah, fuck it. I can’t hear-- I can’t hear you, sweetheart, lemme jus’...” 

“Steve--” 

The blond looks around the yard with wild-eyed determination, face brightening almost comically as he catches sight of the trellis attached to the side of the house, begonias twining all the way up to Bucky’s windowsill. 

“That’ll work,” Steve hiccups, tucking the flowers under his arm and patting his pockets. 

“Steve,” Bucky says urgently, “what do you think you’re--”

Steve launches himself at the trellis in an explosion of petals and splintering wood. 

Bucky’s mouth drops open. 

Steve climbs awkwardly, noisily, and he is absolutely certain that his parents will have woken up by now, certain that his father will soon be sprinting through the house with a baseball bat. 

“Jus’--jus’ one second, honey-- ow, fuck, are these-- d’these have thorns--”

Steve tumbles over over the window ledge and onto the carpeted floor of Bucky’s room. 

Bucky stumbles backwards onto his bed. 

The bed’s headboard thuds against the wall. 

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Bucky says, stunned, yet, strangely calm. “You’re-- you’re in my bedroom. And you’re drunk.” 

Steve hums. “Your hair’s messy,” he remarks blearily, crawling over to Bucky’s bed and hauling himself up. “I like it-- s’pretty.” 

Bucky doesn’t move. “You’re in my bedroom,” he repeats, flustered and frustrated. “ _ Steve _ .” 

The blond nudges Bucky’s bare leg. “I like this, too, sweetheart-- y’should show off your legs more often. Or maybe--maybe jus’ for me. That’d be nice.” 

Bucky blushes furiously. “Steve,” he says again, smacking Steve’s hand away. “What are you doing here?” 

Steve startles, expression dazed as he looks down at Bucky’s thighs. “What--oh,” he replies, before pushing the daisies at him. “I brought you your flowers.

Bucky takes in the bouquet; the daisies are wrapped in cellophane, a baby blue satin ribbon tied around their stems. They’re… beautiful. He hugs them closer to his chest. 

“I bought them jus’ for you,” Steve breathes, his eyes scouring over Bucky’s face now that they’re so close. “I want you to have them. I want-- you. That’s all.” 

Bucky swallows. “Why, though? You don’t… you don’t know me.” 

Steve nods. “Exactly,” he replies, staring at Bucky intently. “That’s-- pal, that’s exactly it. I don’t know you. But. You-- you’re not like anyone else. You’re diff-- different. There’s something’ there to get to know. To figure out. And I want that-- I want you.” 

Bucky scrunches the hem of his t-shirt between his knuckles, lips parting as a gentle huff of laughter escapes-- 

No one has ever said that to him before. He has never been different, has never wanted to be different; and from anyone else, the word would not be a compliment. Different isn’t good, after all-- different is an uneven haircut or a lumpy French braid, a too-deep vneck or leather pants; different is a date that isn’t with someone boring, someone safe. No, different is a ride with a boy who wears a leather jacket, who smokes, and has gang-members as best friends; different is wilted daisies that are still pretty, and yes, different is a kiss that tastes like liquor and cigarettes and something else, too, something that makes his pulse race and his blood sing-- 

Different is sexy as hell. 

Different is special and Bucky wants it, too. 

“We have to take this slow,” Bucky whispers, hesitantly scooting closer to Steve on the bed. “I’ve never--” 

Steve kisses him. 

And Bucky does not stop him, does not pull away. He’s happy, he thinks, breathless with how Steve captures and devours him, how strong, warm hands cup his jaw and his broad chest is pressing hard against Bucky’s. Bucky wants to climb into his lap, so he does, wants to eliminate all the space between their bodies and just take. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve groans, trailing his spit-slick mouth down the column of Bucky’s throat. “We can take this as slow as you want.” 

Bucky blinks, his lips feeling swollen and bruised. “Yeah?” he asks. 

Steve bites down on Bucky’s collarbone. “Yeah, he pants, licking at Bucky’s neck. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Bucky’s answering smile, he knows, is ridiculous, shy and private and fond-- But, he supposes that Steve Rogers is a perfect excuse for this behavior. 

Steve’s worth the risk, at any rate. 


End file.
